After dinner,
I listen.
The fridge hums
like it’s praying.
The junk drawer sticks—
it always does.
A spoon clatters
on linoleum,
startling no one.
Two bodies in orbit—
close, but hesitant.
At the sink,
one
scrubs a bowl,
rubbing it raw
like it might
finally come clean
this time.

The other
leans against the fridge
like it isn’t
the edge
of the world.
The sink overflows
with everything
they never said.

This room
has seen slammed doors,
coffee gone cold,
hands too tired
to try again.
I’ve held
so many
almost-endings.
Light slices through blinds.
Dust hangs in every
held breath.
The floor pulses
like an ache.
Then—
a voice,
low,
like confession
to water:
I ruin things.
No rebuttal.
No rush.
Just one step taken.
One open palm
resting
on a shoulder.
The one at the sink
tenses—
Hands drip.
Breath trembles.
Neither moves away.
I do not speak.
The fridge hums
like prayer.